


december 3rd: cobbled paths and grey skies

by watergator



Series: december fic advent 2018 [3]
Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1950s, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-03
Updated: 2018-12-03
Packaged: 2019-09-06 10:17:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16830661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/watergator/pseuds/watergator
Summary: prompt: beansphil meets a handsome stranger at the market





	december 3rd: cobbled paths and grey skies

The sounds of footsteps against cobbled pavestones echo throughout the tiny square of town that stretches out wide with people busting around, weaving between one another and different lives, different people move around to get to the places where they need to go.  
  
London seems a little daunting for Phil. It’s loud and eccentric and miles away both physically and mentally, from his little village up North that has a population of around two hundred. And that’s probably including the sheep that graze upon his father’s farm.  
  
London is nothing like his home; the streets are long and full of people, and cars bustle past, honking their horn at the lone wander who happens to step into the road without looking. Back up north, all Phil had to watch out for when walking along paths and streets was the ringing of a bicycle bell, turning around to notice someone peddling up behind him with a steady enough speed for him to step out the way. But here is a lot more loud and fast paced.  
  
Phil gets pushed and shoved between people as he pushes through the crowd. Too many people stopped in one place; women huddle together in laughs and conversations and men hang around shop front with thick cigars hanging lazily from their mouths with puffs of smoke pumping out of them like a chimney.   
  
Phil pushes forward and squeezes himself out the tight audience he’d been swept up into along with the heavy bustle of London life.  
  
He takes a breath, now that he can, and continues on his steady walk. All he wanted to do was make it to the Market place in time to pick up some fruits and perhaps something sweet, if available.  
  
Eventually he makes his way to the corner where a row of stalls stand, contrasting in colour against the grey sky that hangs above them. Best make it a quick look today, Phil thinks.  
  
He goes round, collects a couple of apples, fishing out a couple of shillings from his jacket pocket; enough change to make up for the cost of the nice bag of granny smiths he has for his apple pie later.  
  
He skims around different stalls; making small talk with each owner, each trying to sell their products. One tries to see him fresh milk, although, Phil can see the way the top of the milk curds against the glass of the bottle and refuses him politely.  
  
Another is selling flat caps and Phil picks one up and admires it. It reminds him of the day’s back home when he’d slap his own flat cap against his head and roll up his sleeves and go out working in the fields. The day’s he’d plough the fields, holding onto the shire as it worked through a summer’s sun. The days when he was merely a fourteen-year-old boy and he’d stand at the crest of the hill out back and watch the sun rise and fall each day, hoping each one would be different, hoping that one day with that sun rising that it would return him his father and brother from war, until one day, so graciously, it did.  
  
But that was just over five years ago, and Phil has grown into the man he is today, filled out his father shoes and moved himself to London away from country life.

He stops when he comes across a stall that isn’t heckling him, like every other market person here, and Phil looks up at the face of a boy, no – a man, with big round brown eyes.

Phil’s first thought, is how breathtakingly stunning this stranger is. His second is trying to remember how his mouth works.  
  
“You looking to buy beans?” the man asks. His voice isn’t quite as deep as Phil’s own is; more so buttery and light, almost like air.  
  
Phil frowns, then looks down and looks at the stacks of cans of baked beans that sit in rows across his table, with a paper sign with the price scribbled down messily.  
  
Phil doesn’t know what to say, so he just nods dumbly, and reaches for a single can of beans.  
  
The handsome stranger nods, and bends down under his table, to grab a bag, and Phil just stares over the countertop to look over at the thick curls that sit on top of his head. Phil swallows thickly, licking his lips as he does so.  
  
When the man stands back up, his cheeks have darkened, and there’s a pink patch of flushed skin against his jaw making Phil wish that he could just see what it’d feel like under this kiss of his lips.  
  
The man pulls him out of his thoughts, thoughts he’d often try to forget about when being about another man, when he holds his palm out flat for Phil to hand over his money too.  
  
Phil stares down at his big hand; stares down at how long and thick his fingers are, and how this market man surely has the hands of a farmer. Broad and big and strong, unlike his own petite and frail ones. Many times had Phil been teased for having such feminine hands, but right now he doesn’t care. These hands in front of him are lovely.  
  
“Excuse me mate,” the voice pulls him out once more, a little sternly, but Phil snaps his eyes up to look across his face. There doesn’t seem to be any real hints of any negative emotions, only a wonky grin on his face, and that’s when Phil notices the dimple that caves into his cheek.  
  
“Sorry,” Phil mutters, and shoves his hands into his trouser pockets and prays that the pennies he gathers up in his grasp are enough for these beans; these beans he doesn’t even want, and drops them into the outstretched hand, where he counts for a while and looks up with a smile.  
  
“Cheers,” the man nods, looking down at his earnings again, handing Phil his little paper bag.  
  
Phil should turn and walk away, it’s the normal thing to do. This man will probably want him to leave his space and let the next set of customers come along to buy his products, but Phil’s dress shoes seem to stick against the brick road, unable to move.  
  
The man seems to notice and looks up at Phil with a slightly confused grin.  
  
Phil isn’t sure what to say and what to do, so he panics and opens his mouth.  
  
“I’m new to London.”  
  
The man nods slowly, almost confused at first, but his lips twitch into a small grin as he looks over at Phil with a curiosity.  
  
“Came from up north. Moved here just a couple weeks ago,” Phil tells him, for no good reason other than he really doesn’t think he should move from this spot.  
  
The man nods, “Thought I heard an accent,” he grins.  
  
Phil nods, clutching his bag of baked beans in his hand tightly. “Yourself?” Phil finds himself asking, only because he doesn’t have the same rough London accent Phil had grown accustomed to over his time of living here.  
  
He shakes his head, his brown curls bouncing against his forehead. “Come from a place just east from here. Little village just a couple hundred miles off the coast.”  
  
Phil smiles, and the stranger smiles back.  
  
“Philip,” he introduces himself with a firm nod.  
  
“Daniel,” he says back.  
  
Just then, Phil begins to feel the wet patter of rain against his head. It soaks in his hair and begins to drip down his forehead, and within seconds its gone from a couple of innocent splatters of raindrops, to a full on downpour of heavy rain.  
  
Before Phil can even say anything, he’s feeling Daniel pull him by the arm, yanking him forward until he’s under the dry safety of his little tent. In here, the rain is loud and noisy, but Phil likes it.  
  
“Thanks,” Phil says quietly, unsure if Daniel will even be able to hear his timid voice over the volume of the rain as it pours down.   
  
But they’re close enough for him to hear because he smiles again, so wide that his dimple grows deep against his cheeks, and Phil can’t pull his eyes away from it every time it appears.  
  
“No problem,” Dan whispers back. And despite the heavy fall of rain that surrounds them and the shrill screams of people running around the streets in desperation to seek shelter from the onslaught that now thunders from the sky, Phil hears him loud and clear.  
  
“You wanna stay here until the rain clears?” Daniel asks him, nodding to the rain that falls from the sky, and Phil looks out at where it soaks the street and then back at him.  
  
He has a glint in his eyes, his honey brown eyes that seem to sparkle despite grey skies and the storm above them. Phil shakes his bag of canned beans, and nods.  
  
“Yeah,” he smiles, wet drops of rain drip from his lashes and down his cold skin.  
  
“Yeah,” he repeats. “Here is good.”  
  


**Author's Note:**

> come say hi on tumblr !! @watergator


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